September and having "The Talk"

September and having "The Talk".

It’s September 1969 – You’re A Teenager – You Live In L.A. For The Next Week – You Question Your Sanity.

September and Having “The Talk”.

Just your luck. Your entire time in High School you never had even one remotely serious relationship. Nothing. Fumbled advances. Awkward silence. Sweaty palms. Staring at the Floor. Mojave mouth. Tripping tongue. Uncontrolled stuttering. Not once did you have one bungle-free encounter where you didn’t feel like hiding under a rock, or slapping yourself silly when no one was looking.

And then it happened. You graduated. Summer of ’69 was loaded with infinite possibilities. You were free. You got accepted to a college in another state, further than driving distance. And then you met someone. Accident – you weren’t looking – took you by surprise – took your breath away – you didn’t have time to screw up. The One. You finished each others sentences. You had sex they only wrote about in banned books. You finally got to say “where have you been all my life?” and not sound like a bad movie. You were, in a word, happy. Really happy – beyond happy – limited edition-signed-and-numbered happy.

And then September rolled around – you were too happy to notice what September meant. And you were so happy you forgot you’re in L.A. and College is in Ohio. Why? What the hell is in Ohio? What were you thinking? And you had a dorm room – and you had boxes of stuff and you had books and records and you had to be there in less than a week.

And you had to have “the talk” – and you can’t even look at each other. Your world has stopped spinning- and you make promises; a whole file cabinet full of promises. Deep-down you know it’s not going to happen – this is it; fun’s over. Life as you know it is over. Oh, son-on-a-bitch over. God has a sense of humor and you aren’t getting it – you’re convinced it’s Karma. You did something really rotten in another life and this is payback. You’re doomed. All you can do about it is sigh, shake your head, wipe tears – feel miserable. You would like to throw up. You promise each other you’ll get together on Christmas Vacation, it’s only 90 days away. Only nothing – 90 days is an eternity – it’s still only September.

It’s all your fault, you know. Nobody held a gun to your head and forced you to apply to Kent State. You thought it was good idea – change of scenery – different people – nobody knows you. Looked good on paper, even your counsellor thought so.

So you promise to write – promise to call – promise to dream about – promise not to see anyone else – promise it’ll be okay – promise it’s not the end of the world. The Talk is all talked out and its down to staring and hand holding and forcing smiles.

Three hours later – nothing left to say and no place left to go, you finally part company. The loneliest ride home in the world – even the bus driver feels sorry for you. So sorry, he turns on the radio and KHJ comes out of the intercom. He looks at you in his rear-view mirror and cracks the all-knowing smile.

He knows – he’s been there. You’re not alone. That’s comfort.

So is The Real Don Steele from September 23, 1969.

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